


A Sound Like the Dashing of Hope

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-08
Updated: 2005-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from HBP, involving a visit to Spinner's End, a voyeuristic Peter Pettigrew, and Lupin's desperate search for atonement.</p><p>~5,000 words. NC-17. Thanks to Dora the Nymph and Smoke for the beta work. September 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sound Like the Dashing of Hope

The key, Peter understands now, is silence. Snape cannot see him, but he can _hear_ him. Peter still has the advantage though, because what Snape does not always seem to remember is that Peter can hear _him_, too. Sometimes, in the middle of the night when Snape awakes with a start and shouts out a name Peter never thought he would hear from Snape's mouth, oh yes, _then_ Peter is quite sure that Snape doesn't understand about voice, and the thrill of its absence.

Peter has spent his life trying to hide, to disappear, to prolong silences, but it never quite seems to work. There are men in charge of him, people he answers to, superiors who want _sound _from him – whispers of acquiescence, murmurs of assent, declarations of fealty. He has never answered to himself in his entire life. Not like Snape, who never answers to anyone _but_ himself, or so it seems to Peter.

Maybe if Peter hadn't always been so damned good at saying the things that other people wanted him to say, and agreeing with the suggestions that everyone wanted him to agree with, he would not be where he is right now, huddled behind an obscured wall in the sitting room of Severus Snape's mouldy old house.

When the knock on the front door comes, Peter pretends he can't hear it; if he hears it, Snape will make him answer it. He busies himself up the staircase, noisily straightening his things, trying to convince Snape that he is much too important to answer doors or mix drinks – and trying to convince himself that he is happy here, away from the past. ****

This is Peter's home now: a cramped room, behind a failing plaster wall, with a single fold-out bed and his last remaining possessions. A small bottle of silver polish mocks him from the floor, but apart from that, the room is unremarkable. Just like Peter. He hates his life, hates Snape, and most of all, he hates that he can't stop himself from creeping down the steps and fixing his ear to the wall behind that bookshelf. Things happen out there, Peter knows they do, even if he is not permitted to participate in them most of the time. The best he can do is to listen carefully for the sounds those things make, when they happen.

Snape doesn't speak when he opens the door, and Peter pushes into the wall, ears alert, desperate for contact with the world outside his stuffy little room and his dank, filthy staircase.

There is no answer from the doorway, and Peter strains on his tiptoes, nose pressed flat against the wall. Nobody comes here. Snape arrived from Hogwarts a month ago and promptly banished Peter to the room behind the wall, shouting all the while about Padfoot and Prongs and how he was destined never to have a moment's peace from any of those vermin brats who tormented him at school. He didn't mention Moony, though. Curious, that.

"What?" Snape snaps at the empty doorway that Peter can't see, but his voice isn't as harsh as the word indicates it should be.

Still no answer. Peter's stinking breath puffs against the wall in front of him as he strains to hear even a whisper from the visitor.

"I asked you what you're doing here," Snape growls, and Peter can picture in his mind the way Snape's body must be stiff with annoyance, his knuckles gleaming white on the open door.

"You know what I'm doing here," a voice answers at last, and Peter's heart stops.

_Moony_.

Peter would know that raspy voice anywhere, and now sound is not enough anymore, not this time, not if Moony is here. Peter's eyes dart back and forth as his brain whizzes through every spell he knows, and some he doesn't. He has to see; he _must see _Moony. It has been too long, and the last time… fucking _Padfoot_. Well, Peter didn't get a good enough look at Moony that night, not really. At last, his mind lands on a spell, one the Dark Lord taught him to use during their travels through Albania when his master was too weak to fight anyone, and they could not risk discovery. It was tricky, requiring full concentration to ensure the obscuring of one's own form behind an obstacle, while simultaneously guaranteeing that obstacle's transparency for he who casts the spell.

Peter draws his wand slowly, silently, and murmurs the incantation in his head.

The wall vanishes.

For a moment he is stricken, his blood running cold as though an Invisibility Cloak has just been pulled off and he is suddenly naked in front of the entire school. He dares not make a move until he is certain that Snape and Moony cannot see him. Seconds creep by like days as he stands rooted to his spot behind the one-way transparency of that book-lined wall.

He sees only Snape's profile, that filthy curtain of hair hanging across Peter's vision, that hooked nose jutting out from the hair like a curse. His left hand is frozen on the door knob, just as Peter thought it would be, and as the door sways open, its hinges creak in protest, or mourning.

"I _know_ what you're doing here?" replies Snape with mock incredulity, and Peter recognises that edge in his voice – it's the note that sounds just before Snape pulls his wand, just before he aims sparks at Peter's chest and orders him to get behind that _fucking_ wall and never come out again. But Snape does not draw his wand now. He stares at Moony a moment longer, then releases his hold on the door and turns his back on it, striding into the sitting room and staring out the window. "No, I don't," he adds, his voice strained. "Not anymore."

Moony follows him inside, and Peter's jaw drops.

He is old. Somewhere in between Hogwarts and now, Moony has grown old. Even two years ago, that night with Padfoot in the Shack, Moony did not look like this. His face is lined, crinkled around the eyes and mouth, as though he's been smiling too much or worrying too often. His robes hang limply on his body, like wet curtains fading from colour, and their grey dampness matches the crumpled-newspaper quality of his hair. It's too long, and matted. It's as though he has cast a spell on himself to mask his appearance in blandness. He is unremarkable. Dull. Weak.

Snape hates the Marauders. Snape is a lying hypocrite. _Snape calls Moony's name in the dead of night when he forgets that Peter can hear him_. Peter relaxes, convinced that if Snape and Moony could see him, they would have done something about it by now. He leans against the wall to watch, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Nice place," says Moony dryly, glancing around, and Snape glares at him over his shoulder.

"Don't speak to me."

"I'm here to speak to you."

Snape turns to face him. "This is a place," he hisses, "to which you should never come. _Never_. It is not–"

"I know what it is, and what it isn't," Moony interrupts, "and what can and cannot be said and done."

Snape watches him wordlessly.

"_It's_ not safe, _you're_ not safe, _I'm_ not safe," Moony continues, pacing around the tiny sitting room and gesturing with his hand, as though he's heard these words from Snape a thousand times already. He pauses, gazing at Snape with an expression Peter can't read. But then again, Peter was never very good at reading Moony's expressions.

That's not his name anymore, Peter corrects himself suddenly, cursing under his breath. Things are different now, and that's not his name. Peter was the only one who noticed him cringe whenever Padfoot and Prongs called him that. He hated it; Peter knew he hated it, because Peter was the only one who ever watched him closely enough to tell. Not closely enough to be able to read his expressions, mind – especially expressions as closed and drawn as the one now etched on his face, as he gazes at Snape. No, Peter watched and watched, and Moony cringed, and Padfoot and Prongs laughed, and the expressions closed, and the years passed, and his name isn't _Moony_ anymore.

His name is Remus.

Peter wonders what Snape will call him. It changes in the dreams, but this is reality. Whatever Snape calls him now will be Moony's reality.

"You're determined not to speak," Moony continues, when Snape fails to fill the silence, "but I need to talk about this." He walks over to Snape and stands directly in front of him, crossing his arms and blocking the black robe and forbidding features from Peter's view. It is only Moony's back he sees – Moony's back and Snape's arms, like a grotesque, faceless puppet. After another moment of silence, Moony turns away again. "Fine, no talking," he mutters, strolling towards the wall, Peter's wall, his mouth a taut line and his eyes much too old.

Snape's eyes follow him to the wall, then a strange expression crosses his face. He grabs Moony's arm and pulls him back, the index finger of his free hand flying up to his lips in a warning to _be quiet_.

Moony doesn't ask questions; instead, he leans into Snape's touch, his arm falling limp where Snape's fingers curl around it, his shoulder dropping in submission as he allows himself to be led away. He closes his eyes for a brief second, then moves a hand up to cover Snape's on his arm. "Severus–" he whispers.

Snape drops his hand as though burned with dragon's fire. "Don't touch me," he spits, his voice low and his lips barely moving. "You don't have that right anymore."

Moony looks as though he has been slapped. "What?" he asks quietly.

"You didn't think I would find out, did you?" Snape hisses, arms folded over his chest.

"I–" Moony pauses, then closes his mouth. Peter agrees with that decision. Sometimes words are overrated. Sometimes sight, and touch, and _taste_ are more effective. He wishes he had had the opportunity to teach Moony that, back at school. Back before all of this ever happened.

Snape doesn't flinch when Moony removes his outer robe and turns to toss it over an armchair, then begins to unbutton his shirt. Snape doesn't flinch, but Peter does. His eyes glue themselves to Moony's fingers, long and pale, the scarred knuckles catching the room's dim light. One by one, Moony slips the buttons through their holes, allowing his shirt to fall open. He stares with vacant eyes at the wall, and Peter feels a shiver run down his spine. He knows Moony can't see him; he knows Moony isn't doing this for him, but for right now, just for a fleeting moment, Peter can pretend he is.

_It could have been just us, Moony. I tried, you know! I tried to make it that way, getting rid of Prongs and Lily and Padfoot. It could have been just us, if you hadn't – _

"Put your clothes back on," Snape orders, his narrowed eyes darting to the wall again, and Peter raises his eyes from where he's been staring at Moony's bare chest, exposed in front of him like one of the Dark Lord's cruel gifts.

Moony ignores the command and shakes his head, then pushes the shirt off his shoulders. It falls to the floor as if in slow motion, like a piece of parchment riding the currents of tension in the room before giving in to gravity. It makes a sound like the dashing of hope when it finally hits the rough floor.

"This is a war, Lupin," Snape calls softly. "When you are given an order, you need to obey it."

_Lupin_. So that's what Snape calls him. Somehow that one, cold word contains more intimacy to Peter's ears than all the unwanted Marauder nicknames combined. Moony. Remus. Peter finally realises, after all these years, that _Lupin_, spoken in that low, forbidding voice, is the only name Moony wants to hear.

He turns away from the wall to face Snape again. "I follow Albus's orders, not yours," he replies. Peter gazes at Moony's weathered back.

"Then you will die," Snape informs him.

"Promise?"

Snape inhales sharply. "Is that what you want?" His voice is barely audible, and Moony nods.

"If you don't want this," he whispers, then steps forward.

They meet in the centre of the room, both breathing hard and gazing at each other like two marble statues that need sound, voice, _words_ more than anything else in the world, that need to _tell _each other what has happened up to now, and what will happen after this, but lacking that ability to speak of it they can only see, smell, touch, and _taste_. They come together, and Peter sees the crumbling of resolve, a shattered pile of stone surrounding the two figures as their bodies crush together, Snape's hands ripping at Moony's trousers, Moony's hands clutching at Snape's shoulders. Peter knows all about resolve, and he knows all about how fragile it can be.

Snape's cold lips find Moony's and Peter grimaces, tearing his eyes away and covering his ears in an effort to shut out those _sounds_ Moony is making – the low growls and panting gasps, the sounds of desire and passion and loss and pain. Peter doesn't immediately recognise the first two, but he knows all about the last two.

So this is why Snape shouts Moony's name at night. Finally, Peter discovers something he and Snape share. He tests the words on his lips – _Moony_ – but this throat won't make the sound. His lips are too dry.

"Give me an order," Moony whispers, and Peter dares to raise his eyes again. In profile, he sees Moony leaning into Snape, forehead pressed to forehead, fingers digging into biceps. Snape's hands have disappeared, leaving only long arms that end where Moony's trousers begin.

They appear again as the trousers and pants fall to the floor. Moony raises his head to gaze at Snape as he steps out of them, and Peter chokes back a cough as Moony stands naked in the middle of the sitting room at Spinner's End. His body is hunched, not proud; scarred, not smooth; weighted, not carefree. But it is still _Moony's body_, and it has filled Peter's dreams for decades. He stares.

"Against the wall," Snape commands him, his voice hoarse but steady as he begins to step slowly out of his own clothes. Peter's eyes widen. The wall. _The wall_. Snape has forgotten. Oh god no. Not this.

Moony is breathing hard as he walks back towards the wall, his chest heaving, his eyes sad, and his mouth creased with something like determination. Peter watches him come closer and closer, his pace careful, his arms hanging listlessly at his sides, and Peter is overcome with a desire to _touch him_. His eyes fall lower, drinking in Moony's body from his eyes down to his collarbone, his chest, navel, then landing on Moony's cock, stiff and gorgeous where it juts out from his body as he walks. Peter balls his hands into fists, desperate to overcome his need to _touch_.

When Moony reaches the wall, he raises his palms to either side of his face and falls against it, his forehead landing between his outstretched hands, his head lowered against the books. Without thinking, Peter steps towards the wall and lifts his own right hand to Moony's left. He mirrors Moony's palm with his own, gazing in wonder at the body on display before him. His left hand rises as well, then his head follows. In another moment he is pressed against Moony from behind the wall, his mouth centimetres from Moony's parted lips, his fingers just out of reach, his own erection straining to meet the one across the divide of that bookshelf.

"Did you fuck her?"

Snape's hoarse voice cuts through Peter's reverie, quavering in a way Peter has never heard before, not from Snape, and he jumps back from the wall, trembling from head to toe. His eyes fly to Snape for a split-second before he sinks to the floor at the bottom of his staircase, his face feeling hot with shame. When he looks up again, Snape is standing behind Moony, whose eyes are now closed.

"Yes," Moony answers, his voice a whisper, and a deathly pause fills the room for an agonising moment before he continues. "Just after Sirius- she… understood… she came to me, and–" He pauses as his voice begins to tremble. "I couldn't _breathe_, and- I just- you weren't there," he mutters, eyes still closed tightly. "You never said- I didn't think- you were coming back," he adds, pressing his body further into the wall, as if in resignation.

Peter stares, open-mouthed, not even daring to wonder what they are talking about – refusing to consider that they have done this before, that they –

He closes his eyes.

"Do you know why you are such a terrible spy, Lupin?" Snape hisses, his lips hovering over Moony's ear, and Peter hears Moony's breath hitch. "Because you have no sense of _loyalty_."

Peter raises his eyes again, to find Snape fully undressed and pressed against Moony's back. A finger trails lightly down Moony's right hip, snaking its way around Moony's arse, then disappearing from Peter's sight as Snape murmurs a word into Moony's ear. Moony _whimpers_, his lips falling open as Snape's invisible hand does something to him.

Peter panics. _No_. Not here, not now, not while he can see. Oh god. He tries to burrow his face in his hands but his traitorous eyes won't stay put. He glances up.

Snape's hands have appeared again to spread out over top of Moony's against the wall, arms outstretched, his chest at Moony's back. His mouth ghosts over the back of Moony's neck, and the sounds Moony makes as his head drops against the wall are almost enough to make Peter weep.

"I am loyal," whispers Moony, his lips parted and panting as he uses the wall to push back against Snape's body. "Severus, _I am_. Let me–"

"Shh!" Snape orders, eyes narrowing again as his body tenses. He watches the wall like a hawk for a long moment before dropping his eyes again, apparently satisfied that Peter is safely upstairs.

He takes a deep breath, lets his lips trail over Moony's shoulder, and _thrusts_.

Moony cries out.

Peter jumps to his feet, eyes wide and mouth gaping open in shock. _Moony, no, don't let him –_

Snape thrusts again.

For minutes that stretch into years in Peter's mind, the only sounds echoing off the dirty walls are Moony's choked gasps and Snape's restrained groans. Peter sinks back down to the floor, his eyes fixed on Moony's body. Moony's fingers claw at the book-lined shelves, and Peter imagines them fisted around bedsheets, somewhere else, imagines riding Moony nice and slow while he grasps the linens in his hands to shore against the waves crashing through his body. Moony's forehead presses into the top shelf, and Peter sees only the parted lips calling _his_ name, not Snape's, the flush on Moony's cheeks rising because of _his_ cock, not anyone else's. Moony's thighs tremble with the effort of bracing himself against Snape's thrusts, bent slightly at the knee as he moves along with Snape, pushing back into him and meeting him at every stroke, and Peter sees only blackness and murder and the paralysing realisation that _he will never have this_.

"_Severus_," Moony moans as Snape increases his pace. "God, please."

Ice runs down Peter's spine, but he cannot look away. Moony is squarely in front of him; he cannot see _precisely_ what is happening – only movement, Snape's shoulders over Moony's, his lips clamped to Moony's neck, his legs pumping the man into the wall rhythmically, completely. Peter's cock throbs. He ignores it. He is too angry for that.

_Moony, please, why are you doing this?_ he begs in his head, eyes fixated on the man in front of him, the man he always wanted and could never have.

"Fuck, yes."

_You wanted to fuck a Death Eater, is that it?_ Peter wants to cry. _I was there all along, you stupid prick_.

"Tell me you know what loyalty is!" Snape shouts suddenly, his voice breaking on that key word, as his hips slam forward so hard Peter can see the red welt from the edge of the bookshelf etched across Moony's cheek.

_Is this what you want? This isn't you, Moony. I can give it to you, whatever you want_.

"I know it, I swear to god I do. Touch me, Severus – once more, _please…_"

Peter whimpers without meaning to and lets his resolve slide away. Nothing feels as good as his cock in his hand right now, his good hand, the other one gleaming and useless at his side, and he doesn't care if it makes him a filthy pervert. Fuck _loyalty_. If Snape thinks he knows so much about that word, why is he fucking the enemy? Peter's fingers wrap around his length, the vein already pulsing with arousal, and he slumps against the staircase to watch, his chest leaden, as Snape lets go of Moony's right hand on the wall and lowers it to Moony's cock.

He sees the complete shudder that rips through Moony's body as Snape touches him, and it only makes Peter fist himself harder.

He has never seen a man touch another man like that before, although the thought of it has dominated his dreams for decades. He takes in the strong fingers wrapping around that cock, and as he watches Moony's face dissolve and his body crumble, Peter imagines it is _his_ hand doing that, moving so smoothly up and down Moony's length, fucking him into that wall and fisting his cock until the breath drains out of him.

Peter comes before he means to, his face blazing, and he momentarily forgets his invisibility as he avoids Snape's eyes. Snape wouldn't have noticed anyway – his face is buried in Moony's shoulder, his groans matching Moony's sobs as they both tumble over the edge, Snape's cock buried deep inside Moony and his fist covered with Moony's come. They clutch at each other in a strange sort of desperation Peter isn't sure they themselves can identify, and long after the shudders leave their bodies, rippling to the floor and out across the room, they stay folded together, Snape's arms at Moony's waist and Moony's fingers on Snape's arms, pulling him close.

Peter doesn't want to move, but somehow, it is harder to watch this moment between them than the sex itself. He has never seen – nor heard – Snape like this, so vulnerable as he catches his breath, pressing soft kisses into Moony's hair and holding onto him as though the very thought of letting go will break him.

It is a long minute before Moony speaks. His voice is not his own. "Severus, I–"

"You have to go."

Peter huddles into a small ball on the floor behind the wall, hastening to wipe his hand on his trousers as his mind works to process its shock at hearing such harsh words from Snape, directly on the heels of witnessing such intimacy.

"No, I don't," Moony insists, finally breaking their embrace and turning to face Snape. "Please, just–"

"She'll be waiting for you, won't she?"

Peter stifles a gasp at the hurt in Snape's voice.

Moony winces, dropping his head. "I don't want her," he whispers, and Snape almost laughs.

"You don't know what you want," he hisses.

"I DON'T _WANT_ HER!" Moony screams all of a sudden, turning back to pound a fist into the shelf, and Peter cowers behind it as a pair of books crash to the floor.

A terrible silence fills the room, as though time has stopped and all sound and movement has ceased to exist. All Peter can hear are three heartbeats, echoing off the walls and through his ears no matter how hard he tries to shut them out. Snape is heartless, he tells himself, and Moony… Moony does not have enough heart for both of them.

"Leave. Now." Snape's voice jolts time into action again, and then he is already across the room, already clothed, it seems, and Peter blinks. Snape turns to face Moony, his face again a mask. "And you must _never_ come back."

"_No_," Moony pleads.

Snape's eyes flicker to Peter's wall again, then back to Moony. "You don't understand how dangerous this is," he implores. "You never did. There's–" He pauses and drops his head, his low voice barely audible. "There's something I must do now, and you won't- understand it."

"What is it?" Moony's eyes are wide with alarm, but when Peter's gaze returns to Snape, the man's features are blank.

"If you come back here," he whispers slowly, his eyes slicing through Moony, "you will die."

Moony stares at him for a long, silent moment before his eyes drop to the floor, then slowly, he nods. He gathers his clothes and dresses carefully, methodically, as though hoping that Snape will change his mind, as though he doesn't _actually _have to obey this order. But he does, and they both know it. Somehow, even Peter knows it.

A sharp knock comes at the door, and their eyes meet for a brief moment, their faces stained with the sorrow of promises betrayed and tears unshed.

"It is time," Snape whispers, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes trained on that door.

Moony reaches out to lay a hand on his arm, pulling him back once more to face him, and Peter sees them both in profile, brows creased and cheeks sunken. Moony's right hand rises to Snape's lips, ghosting over them and then down his jaw line, his neck, his collarbone, before his palm comes to rest on Snape's chest. To Peter's surprise, Snape closes his eyes and allows the touch, if only for the briefest of moments.

A second later the moment is gone, and Snape sweeps past Moony towards the door, pausing to glance over his shoulder at him. "Side door. There's an alley." His voice is soft, and Moony is watching him carefully, not moving towards any side door. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but Snape does not let him. "_Never_ come back," he repeats, then he turns to open the front door.

"Narcissa!" he beams with false delight. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Severus," a voice whispers, "may I speak to you? It's urgent."

Peter's eyes widen and suddenly it all makes sense. He knows what Snape will do; he always knows more than Snape gives him credit for. When it is all said and done and Snape is out of the way, it will be _Peter_ that Moony comes here to see, _Peter_ that Moony strips for, pressing his body against that wall and letting _Peter_ fuck him cold.

It will all happen now; for a split second, Peter is so _sure_ of it. But as he watches Moony slip from the room, heading for the side door and out to the alley beside the house, he realises that's not what will happen. Peter hates Moony, he has told himself this for decades. He despises and loathes Moony and wants only bad things to happen to him, but he has seen it now – he has seen Moony's face drawn in pleasure, Moony's lips parted as his breathing hitched, Moony's body rocked until it reached the peak of its arousal. Tonight Peter has seen all these things in Moony, has _heard _that which he never imagined, and it has paralysed him. He knows he will not speak of it. There would be no words for it, even if he tried to find them, tried to tell the Dark Lord, tried to turn this against Snape and _ruin him_.

The key, Peter understands now, is silence. The men in charge of him, the people he answers to, the superiors who want _sound _from him – they are not going to get it. He has heard now; he has seen, and he has _felt_. As he watches the Dark Lord's women step into Snape's greasy parlour, their ambition poisoning the air that not five minutes ago was sweetened with a desire so powerful Peter barely even recognised it, he releases the breath he has been holding, and releases the last of the Marauders at the same time. He's done too much harm to Moony already in his life; tonight, he is done.

Neither Snape nor Moony has anything left now.

Silence falls, and Peter makes a decision to preserve it.

There are no words.

 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> The title is vaguely inspired by an oft-used phrase (as well as the title of chapter 54) in Susanna Clarke's marvellous novel, _Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell_ (2004) – "a little box, the colour of heartache," combined with another key plot point in that novel, a kingdom known as "Lost-hope."
> 
> "Narcissa! What a pleasant surprise!" / "Severus, may I speak to you? It's urgent." This dialogue is taken verbatim from J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_, p. 28 (UK edition).
> 
> ART! [](http://mieronna.livejournal.com/profile)[**mieronna**](http://mieronna.livejournal.com/) has drawn [an entire storyboard](http://snegurochka.slashcity.net/fics/dashingofhope.html) for this story! (scroll down). It was my gift in the 2005 Snupin Santa exchange. :)


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